


All Cats are Grey in the Dark

by parabolica (orphan_account)



Category: Eye Candy (TV)
Genre: Autumn, Cats, Fluff, Gen, M/M, ToT: Chocolate Box
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 16:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12414225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/parabolica
Summary: Tommy adopts a stray cat.Except it isn't a stray.





	All Cats are Grey in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



It’s there on the stoop when Tommy comes home late one night. A cat, curled up and patient beneath the sodium glow of the light. Its eyes are half-lidded and the tip of its tail wags as if it’s impatient, as if it’s been waiting for him.

“Hey, kitty.” It’s been a long day. Twenty-six hours, in fact; a long day and then some. Cyber crime doesn’t sleep, and that means that sometimes, the CCU doesn’t sleep, either.

The cat yawns, showing tiny sharp teeth and a pink tongue.

“Yeah, I feel you.” Tommy stirs the animal with the side of his foot, gently but insistently. He just wants to go to bed. Wants to sleep for the next fifteen hours straight, plunge into oblivion so he can forget the vileness of what he’d seen on the dark web. Another trafficking site shut down, another boatload of vulnerable women and children saved, but it’s never enough.

He jabs the key in the lock and opens the door. A sleek dark shape runs into the hall ahead of him, bounding up the stairs as if it knows the way.

“Huh. Come on in, I guess.” A yawn cracks Tommy’s jaw. He closes the door and trudges on up to his apartment, slapping at the light switches. The cat is waiting on the polished wooden floorboards, apparently taking in the minimalism of his living space. He never did get around to buying more stuff after that stunt Bubonic pulled. It didn’t seem to matter. Now he thinks the cat is judging him.

“Yeah, I know. I should have a rug or something. Art on the walls. Actual furniture.” He kicks off his boots, slings off his jacket. Runs his hands over his face and scowls at the scratch of stubble, at the whiff of stale cigarette smoke caught in his hair and the aftertaste of too much coffee. He should hop into the shower but he’s too tired, sleep already pulling at his senses.

The cat goes over to the balcony door.

“Nuh-uh.” It’s late October, not warm enough to have the door open all night, but maybe the cat wants a way out. Tommy cracks a side window and leaves the creature to it. Cats are smart animals: if it wants to leave, it’ll find a way.

Putting it from his mind, Tommy slumps into his bedroom. He unholsters his side-arm, sliding the gun under his pillow, then strips out of his clothes and rolls beneath the duvet. He’s almost asleep when he feels a warm, furry body insinuate itself in the crook of his left arm.

The cat’s low purring soothes him into the darkness.

*

He wakes to an unexpected weight on top of him. Tommy blinks, jerks up, and gets two paws-full of needle-sharp claws in his chest. _Oh yeah. The cat_. He relaxes, and the little tyrant retracts its claws and resumes its position, making a rumbling noise.

“Hi there.”

It’s been a long time since he’s had any kind of conversation in his apartment. After that stunt Bubonic pulled—really, he has to stop thinking of it as a stunt, because the consequences could have been so much worse—after that, he’d sent his dog to stay with a college friend in Idaho. The last he’d heard, Boris was doing fine without him and showed no signs of missing him. Which was fair enough. The hours he worked, he hardly had time to feed the dog, let alone walk him.

He hadn’t considered another pet since then. But now, with the warm weight of the cat on his chest, he wonders if it’s time to think again.

Tommy studies the cat. It has green eyes and longish fur mottled brown and black. It’s not a breed that he recognises. He wonders if it’s a boy or a girl, but when he tries to shift it onto its side to check, the cat makes a _rrrr_ noise and lifts a paw. Unversed in cat language, Tommy decides to err on the side of caution. “Okay. You got it. Okay.”

He doesn’t know what to do now. If he sits up, will the cat jump off him? But it’s kinda nice, just laying here with the kitty on his chest. Restful. Relaxing. He strokes the cat, fingers slipping through deep, luxurious fur. The cat lowers its head and begins to purr. Tommy feels good. He carries on stroking the cat until he falls back asleep.

*

He’s disappointed when he wakes again mid-afternoon and the cat is no longer there. He gets up, takes a shower, brushes his teeth, and gets dressed. Wandering around the apartment, he’s struck by how sparse it looks. The cat was right to judge him. He should make the most of his day off and buy some furniture.

*

When he comes home that evening, the cat is waiting for him on the stoop. It gets to its feet as he approaches, stretches a little, and winds around his ankles. As soon as he opens the door, it shoots ahead and is waiting for him at the top of the stairs, a silent sentinel with glowing green eyes.

Tommy bends to fuss it. “Hey, buddy. What’s your name, huh? Where are you from?”

There’s no collar. He strokes the cat, wondering if it’s micro-chipped. The responsible thing to do would be to take it to a vet and try to trace the owner, but cats aren’t like dogs. They wander. They do as they please. They’re beholden to no man. If this cat wants to spend time with him, he’s not going to chase it away.

“Look here. Got you something.” He likes the way the cat follows him to the kitchen, rubbing against his legs. Tommy laughs when it jumps up onto the counter, pacing up and down imperiously. It must know he’s bought it food.

He finds a saucer and tips out a pouch of premium cat food. Setting it on the floor, he stands back and watches as the cat leaps down and starts to eat. Such an elegant creature. Tommy smiles and digs out some leftover pizza from the fridge. They eat together, and for the first time in a long time, he feels a little less alone.

*

Over the next couple of weeks, he looks forward to going home. No more lingering in the office after his shift ends, no more riding the subway to unwind. He even cuts short drinks with Yeager. He has the cat waiting for him. He has a responsibility to offer it food and water and cuddles, if it wants them.

It’s kinda cool, having a pet again, even if the cat isn’t really his. He can pick it up now, and carry it around, and sometimes it crawls up his arm and drapes itself over his shoulders, purring, like a furry scarf. He talks to it all the time, and it seems to listen, so he tells it about his day, how he feels about the cases he’s working on, and it’s so good to unburden to another living thing.

The Unit’s therapist would have a field day with that, no doubt. But talking about stuff out loud to a cat is better than not saying anything at all, right?

And besides, the cat listens.

The cat _likes_ him. And not just because he feeds it. Tommy is certain of that much.

*

“If we’re making this semi-permanent, we have to get one thing straight,” he tells the cat one afternoon.

The cat stops batting a toy mouse around the furry rug and looks at him.

Tommy sighs and gets down onto his knees, picking the mouse up by its woollen tail and dragging it along the floor. “Are you listening? This is important. I can’t keep calling you ‘cat’ or ‘buddy’ or ‘hey there’.”

The cat sits very still, gaze following the path of the mouse as he jiggles it around the edge of the rug.

“So I’ve been thinking,” Tommy continues, “I should give you a name. And I’ve given this a lot of thought, because I still don’t know if you’re a boy or a girl, so I need to find a name that’s gender-neutral and not completely ridiculous…”

The cat pounces, claws hooking into the toy mouse. It skitters across the floor, rolling onto its back and tossing the mouse in the air before twisting around and patting the toy. It looks cute and kittenish.

“Charlie,” Tommy says decisively. “I’m gonna call you Charlie.”

*

Another few weeks pass. The CCU goes up against Internal Affairs over a series of damaging political leaks. Environmental hacktivists seize control of a tanker full of nuclear waste. The trafficking site they’d closed down springs back to life in another form. There’s an investigation into ballot-fixing in three states. Business as usual, but a little more intense. Tommy is glad of Charlie’s company when he gets home. He has no idea what the cat does when he’s not there, but it’s a relief, a comfort, to see the furry shape curled up on the stoop.

One night, he goes home and Charlie isn’t there.

Tommy slows his footsteps, waiting for the cat to emerge from the shadows and pad up to the door. Nothing happens. He stands in the street, feeling the chill of the autumn wind against the back of his neck. A can rattles along in the gutter. A blast of music from a passing car. Neon blinks from advertising hoardings, and a dark cloud moves across the sky to muffle the moon.

The glow of light outside his door falls on an empty space. Worry uncurls. Tommy climbs the steps, unlocks the door, and goes inside. His coat is off before he reaches the top of the stairs, his boots thudding loud against the wood.

“Hey,” he calls.

The lights are on. A breeze creeps across the floor.

Tommy’s pulse speeds up. He slows his actions, calm and steady. Draws his gun and paces with care into his apartment, towards the light, towards the open balcony door.

A familiar figure is seated in his new chair. Dressed in black, with chestnut curls and a black leather plague doctor’s mask covering his face, Bubonic lounges there. Charlie is spread across his lap. He strokes the cat with black-gloved hands, a rhythmic caress that draws happy purrs from the animal.

Tommy feels betrayed, then angry. “What are you doing with Charlie?”

Bubonic gives a start. “You call him that?”

“He’s a he?” Tommy draws closer, gun aimed at Bubonic’s head. He doesn’t want to shoot the man. Not when Bubonic’s sitting on his nice new cream-coloured chair, not when he has Charlie on his lap.

“Charlie. Leave it.” He speaks sternly, hoping the cat will abandon its position and join him.

The cat yawns delicately and settles more firmly onto Bubonic’s lap. The purrs intensify as the hacktivist rubs behind its ears.

“What are you doing with my cat?”

Bubonic sighs. “Detective Calligan, you are remarkably dull-witted tonight. This is not your cat. Pandemic is _my_ cat.”

“Pandemic?” Tommy lowers the gun, more in disgust than from any good reason. “Oh, come on! You did not name your cat Pandemic!”

A twitch of the lips below the mask. Yes, a guy who took his pseudonym from the Black Death probably _would_ name his cat Pandemic.

Tommy shakes his head. Forget the name. The more pertinent question is: Why is Bubonic in his apartment? But that’s not what comes out when he opens his mouth. “You don’t strike me as a cat person.”

Bubonic laughs. “I thought all evil geniuses were required to have a cat.”

“Oh, you think you’re a Bond villain?” Tommy raises the gun again.

The smile fades. “Possibly. I regret to say, though, Detective, that I lack an expensive car filled with gadgets.”

“You could probably steal one, if you wanted.”

“True.” Bubonic folds his gloved hands. “By the way, in case you’re wondering… I came here to tell you that Pandemic doesn’t like the food you feed him.”

“What? He sure does seem glad to eat it.” Tommy lowers the weapon again. He can’t have a conversation about cat food at gun-point, even if the other person is a master criminal. “Charlie can’t get enough of the stuff. It’s gourmet food. None of that cheap crap. It’s got venison and fruit in it, and quinoa and wild rice…”

“I’m sure it’s all very delicious, but the fact is that Pandemic has developed a habit of being sick on my kitchen floor.” Bubonic looks pained. “It’s certainly nothing I’m feeding him, so it must be your fault.”

“Hey Charlie, good boy! Way to go.” Tommy grins. Of course he feels bad that Charlie’s suffered a stomach upset, but still, he can’t deny that the idea of the cat puking on Bubonic’s floor is kinda funny.

“Aren’t you going to ask me the obvious question?” Bubonic sounds curious.

“Well, gee. There are so many of them. Where do I start?”

A flash of annoyance beneath the mask. “You must be wondering why I let you associate with my cat.”

“I thought cats choose who they want to spend time with,” Tommy says, all nonchalance. “In which case, the answer’s obvious—I’m more fun.”

“Actually,” Bubonic pauses, tips his head to one side, fingers once more running along Charlie’s back, “I thought you might be lonely. You know, with Lindy gone and your funny little dog away in the country…”

Charlie’s tail wags. Tommy thinks that maybe the cat doesn’t like Bubonic all that much after all. “So, what? You thought you’d lend me your cat?”

Bubonic lays both hands on Charlie. “We’ve both lost things we care about, Detective. It’s natural to feel lonely when a void is created.”

Tommy wants to roll his eyes. “And you wanted me to get attached to Charlie, so you could take him away and make me miserable, is that it?”

“Goodness me, no. That would be rather pathetic.” Scooping the cat into his arms, Bubonic gets to his feet. “Perhaps I was reaching out to you. Or perhaps it was as you said: Cats choose the company they keep. You’re often on my mind, Detective Calligan. Surely it follows that Pandemic would also find you intriguing.”

“What do you mean?” Tommy steps forward, lifting the gun again. In that moment, the lights go out. He rushes forward, only to trip as a sinuous, furry body winds around his ankles. From down on the floor he hears the tread of footsteps, and then the drapes billow from the balcony door, letting in the breath of autumn.

When he gets to his feet again, both Bubonic and Charlie have gone.

*

Next evening, Tommy comes home to find Charlie waiting for him on the stoop.

The cat turns green eyes up at him and utters a plaintive _meow_.

Tommy looks at the cat. Looks up and down the street as if expecting to see... what, exactly? A Bond villain’s car? He strokes Charlie’s head and sighs. “Come on, then.”

He opens the door, and they go inside.


End file.
